Sweat or Glow?

I hear that in the South, true ladies don't perspire. They glow.

I'm here to tell you, it's a good thing I live up north. Because I sweat. Like a farmhand. On a hot, humid and windless day.

And it just doesn't seem to get "better," which I don't understand. I am on my darling treadmill nearly every day and my workout doesn't increase in intensity that much from one morning to the next. It seems like at some point, my body would become a more efficient machine and get used to the output. Cruise control, if you will. Or like a high-efficiency furnace, it would produce more while working less hard.

But no.

I sweat. Buckets full. Nearly every morning my racerback workout shirt with the built-in bra is soaking wet. So much so that I'm kind of grossed out when I pull it off over my head. Plus, what started as Medusa morning hair is flat on my head and dripping at my neck. 

On a bright note, I'm assuming all this purging of body fluids means my pores are really clean.

I have to be honest, though. I like it. It's tangible proof that I accomplished something. A badge of honor, awarded just to me every day.

There's a round mirror that hangs over a hall table at the top of the stairs to my basement. Every morning after my workout, as I climb back upstairs to get the rest of my day started, I look in it. I see the sweat running down my neck and my drenched top and I think, "You've done something good for yourself and no matter how crappy today is, no one can take that away from you."

And I also think, "It's OK to have a little extra peanut butter, too. You earned it."